I wonder now. In your world,
so filled with the false
beauty man attempts
to make with hand, if there
is room for me.

The soft of passion's flame to
stand against the blast furnace
of erect and build. I fear it
would not be felt.

You, used to the hard enfold
of mortar and steel, cannot
feel, the featherlight touch
of human.

Please..

Put off this lead apron and
let me approach with gentle caress.
Feel the chains of wreckless
progress. Transgress with me
a sin of soft, slight against.


Pass the gate, come to me.
Leave the obelisks behind.
You are the only Phallus
symbol I desire.

WhiteRose